Delicious and Suspicious (5 page)

Cherry was a source of amusement for the ladies there—she’d clearly set her sights on Tony. She wore her special lucky lipstick that matched her hair, and her personality was especially sparkly.

“Cherry’s really set her cap for Tony,” Flo whispered to Evelyn.

“She drives me batty with all that. It’s not like she’s ever going to cheat on her Johnny,” said Evelyn. “She just enjoys the thrill of the hunt. And why she puts up with all Johnny’s nonsense is beyond me.”

Tony seemed taken with Cherry, too. But then, Cherry—in full-throttle flirting mode—was well-nigh irresistible.

The lighthearted mood changed abruptly when the devil got into Rebecca Adrian again. Flo later wondered if Rebecca just didn’t like seeing people have fun.

“So tell me,” asked Rebecca cajolingly to Cherry, who had finally removed her motorcycle helmet, since the threat of inclement weather had passed (although the threat of her falling out of her chair in front of the Peabody bar was rapidly becoming a distinct possibility), “are you ladies all for real? You give tours at Graceland? And you love each other like sisters and eat heaping piles of barbeque to maintain those skinny-minnie bodies? And you’re all sweet as pie? It seems a little corny.” Her swift smile minimized her cutting words. “Isn’t there any dirt in there at all?”

Now Flo noticed that Tony kept some distance between himself and Rebecca. He asked the bartender for another drink. “That’s it in a nutshell,” said Flo in a rush. “Can I get you another drink, Rebecca?’

But Peggy Sue snickered. “We do love us our barbeque and we’re all best friends. But sweet? I dunno about that.”

Rebecca smiled encouragingly. “It would be a little weird if you were all like some sort of Stepford women.”

“We’ve all had our little escapades, you know. Love affairs, scandals.” Peggy Sue wiggled her eyebrows in an attempt to look devilish. It looked more as if she’d developed a debilitating tic.

Rebecca was disappointed. “Well, love affairs kind of go with the territory, don’t they?”

“
And,
” added Peggy Sue, holding her hand up to stop Rebecca. “One of us is an ex-con.” Here she looked directly, but unsteadily, at Flo. A hiccupping giggle escaped her, which she soon swallowed when she heard the deafening silence from her friends and saw the satisfied smile on Rebecca’s face.

“Ex-con?” asked Rebecca in a sweetly surprised voice. “I never would have guessed. What were you locked up for, Flo?” When she got no response, she said, “I see. Banding together with your vow of silence, right? That’s okay. Peggy Sue helped me supply the tad bit of seasoning I needed for my quirky Memphis barbeque story.”

Flo’s face splotched with red as she bent to get her pocketbook off the floor and wordlessly rushed from the hotel bar. Like four anxious ladies in waiting, the other Graces dashed after her. “Hey,” called Tony, “do you need a ride home?”

Evelyn turned around. “I’m all right to drive, so I’ll take everybody.”

“Actually,” said Cherry, “I’m going to walk home. It’s only a few blocks to Harbortown. Thanks, though.” She strapped on her helmet, figuring there was a high probability of a head-injuring stumble on her walk home.

 

 

Flo remembered Derrick fifteen minutes after returning home. And when she did remember, she gasped. In their hurry to escape the clutches of the wicked Rebecca Adrian, the Graces forgot they’d left Sara’s nephew Derrick behind. He was visiting the men’s room when they rushed out, a fact no one remembered as they scampered out through the glass doors of the Peabody, hollering at Flo to wait up. Flo cussed, picked up her cell phone (which had a very handsome Elvis skin covering it), and called Lulu. She decided she wouldn’t bother calling Sara—that filly had a temper on her like you wouldn’t believe. Lulu should best be able to break the news to Sara, anyway. Since she was Lulu’s daughter-in-law and all.

When Lulu picked up the phone, Flo cut right to the chase. “I forgot him.”

“Who?”

“Derrick. It was my fault entirely. Rebecca Adrian got me mad, and I stormed out and left Derrick behind with that woman. Want to string me up by my toenails?”

Lulu considered this proposal. “Maybe. What was he still doing there? He promised me he’d just hang out for a few minutes with y’all and then he’d head over to Youth Group.”

“Well, he didn’t make it to church, Lulu, and I am so sorry. Want me to run by there and make him drive home? And I’ll pinkie-swear not to take seventeen-year-olds again?”

Lulu softened at her anxious tone. “Don’t worry about it. I can see how Miss Adrian could get anybody steamed. That girl likes looking for trouble, I’m sure of it. She’d better keep an eye on her back, though. Trouble has a way of catching up with you.”

 

 

Sara Taylor was thinking about throwing some trouble in Rebecca Adrian’s direction. Sara had a heckuva temper, which most people fortunately witnessed only short flashes of. Wisely, nobody made mention of the red hair and temper connection.

Sara stormed into the Peabody after getting Lulu’s phone call. She realized after several minutes in the quiet lobby that Derrick and Rebecca Adrian weren’t there. And, considering the bright lights of Beale Street just around the corner, Sara had a great idea where they might be. And it wasn’t going to be at church.

Sara had just stridden around the barricades on Beale when she was nearly run down by her errant nephew. If she hadn’t nearly been plowed over by him, she’d never have seen him at all—he was dressed in black as usual.

“Youth Group, huh?” Sara bellowed. “You
will
need to find God once I’m done with you.” But a closer look at Derrick stopped her in her tracks. Instead of his usual sullenly sardonic face, he looked completely devastated. And . . . were those tears glinting in his eyes?

Sara threw an arm around him (difficult, since he was taller than her) and redirected her fury toward Rebecca Adrian. “Where is that harpy? What did she do to you?”

“Nothing! Let’s go, okay? I’m getting really tired.”

Sara gave Derrick’s arm a squeeze as they wordlessly walked to the parking deck and got into their separate cars. She couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a transformation.

Back at the Peabody Hotel, Rebecca Adrian extinguished a cigarette against a “No Smoking” sign and picked up her cell phone. “Information? I need the number for Sebastian Taylor in Memphis, Tennessee.”

Seb Taylor was putting his feet up at home and still celebrating the fact that the restaurant had a back-door exit. He’d really needed to get home for that drink and cigarette this afternoon, and he wouldn’t have stepped foot into that dining room again for all the money in the world.

What the
hell
was she doing in Memphis? Was it really a coincidence that she happened to be the Cooking Channel scout scoping out Aunt Pat’s?
Of all the barbeque joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

The phone rang and Seb reached over to pick it up.

 

 

Derrick Knight’s hurt turned into a pulsing fury, and his face returned to its regularly scheduled sullenness. Who did Rebecca Adrian think she was? He’d gone out with lots of girls—
girls
—not women a breath away from middle age. And they were
much
hotter than she’d ever been.

Just wait, he thought. Rebecca Adrian had better watch her back.

 

 

Sara tried tempering her fury at Rebecca Adrian. Whatever she’d done to Derrick (and he was not going to let on what that had been) was over. Sara at least needed to keep on good enough terms with her to get the art world contacts she needed and for Lulu to get a great review for the restaurant.

She’d waited a long time to show her art. And now she allowed herself to dream a little.

 

 

Graceland would kick her out. Kick her out and keep her out. Bar the big, beautiful doors. No more mirrored dining room. No more canary yellow TV room. No more jungle room.

And . . . she shivered. If Elvis knew, what would he think? Oh, she knew that he was dead and gone, of course. (Although she’d swear she’d seen him, in disguise and a bit older—and wearing that unfortunate white sequined jump-suit. There
was
that funny business over his misspelled name on his gravestone.) What on earth would Elvis say?

Not to mention everybody else in the town. Or the far reaches of the entire United States of America, if Miss Rebecca Smarty-Pants had her way. Having the Graces know was one thing. They swore they’d keep it a secret. A secret until Peggy Sue got tipsy, then good luck with your secrets. You’d just pray to God your private life wasn’t splashed across the front page of the Memphis paper.

But if Rebecca oh so jauntily put her ex-con background in her story to add a smidge of local color, the whole town of Memphis would know. Not to mention her no-good ex-husband who still looked for her in the wilds of Mississippi. Flo needed to convince Rebecca, and convince her good.

 

 

Southern Accents’s transformation was astonishing, thought Susan Meredith, eyeing the large room through her round spectacles. She’d hastily removed the black-and-white photography exhibit. Now Sara’s art covered the walls, pedestals, and shelves with a startling infusion of vibrant color.

Sara wasn’t pacing, exactly, but jiggling a lot. She couldn’t stand still; instead, she shifted from side to side, crossed and uncrossed her arms, and twisted her curly hair around a finger. And looked a little green around the gills.

“You should relax a little, Sara. Hers is not the be-all, end-all, final-authority opinion. Rebecca Adrian is
very
well connected with her ego. Other than that . . .” Susan shrugged her thin shoulders expressively.

Sara impatiently shook her head. “I think you’re wrong, Susan. She told the Graces last night about all the people she knows in New York.” She wove her fingers together, then pulled them apart. Sara had actually allowed herself some little daydreams involving hanging up her apron for good and spending all her days in the studio, squishing clay and slapping paint on canvases.

“Don’t put all your eggs in Miss Adrian’s basket, that’s all. There are many avenues for developing a name for yourself and finding patrons for your art. None of them involve Rebecca Adrian.”

Sara’s rejoinder was cut short by the tinkling bell indicating Rebecca’s arrival at Southern Accents. Unfortunately, from all appearances, Rebecca was in what could be described only as a peevish mood.

“Can we get a move on?” she asked, taking off her huge designer sunglasses. “I’ve got to get over to Aunt Pat’s”— she checked what looked to be a Rolex watch—“two minutes ago.”

Hating that Rebecca Adrian succeeded in making her feel flustered, Sara wordlessly waved her hand to include the entire gallery. “Well,” she started, “here it is.”

Thankfully, Susan Meredith took over from there. “As you can see, Sara’s art is a remarkable example of Southern folk art. She uses a whimsical approach to . . .”

But Rebecca cut her off with a dismissive slash of her hand. “Never mind all that. This wouldn’t fly in a New York gallery. Never. It looks like someone tripping on acid made those teapots.”

Sara prickled. “Some of us like coloring outside the lines, you know.”

Rebecca squinted at the wall of paintings and made a move. “Plus the fact that the subject matter is completely parochial and clearly limited to local appeal.”

Sara, God help her, did actually try to control herself. It was a powerful struggle between Good Sara and Bad Sara, and for a second or two, it looked as if Good Sara might win. She successfully slipped out the door of Southern Accents before she could say anything hateful to Rebecca Adrian.

But the devil got into Rebecca and wasn’t going to have anything to do with Good Sara. Rebecca popped out the door behind Sara, followed quickly by Susan, and said, “What about this portrait here?” asked Rebecca, referring to a painting in the window of Big Ben. Sara was particularly proud of it, and Susan had begged her to show it for ages. “Did one of your daughters paint this one?” Rebecca snorted.

Sara wondered later if it was the snide reference or the way she implied that Coco or Ella Beth would produce poor artwork that made her blow her top. She never could decide. But whatever it was made her blow her top in a way she’d struggled to control for years. “At least I have somebody who gives a flip about me. Thanks for the pep talk. I’m just sorry I ever respected your opinion enough to go asking for it. People like you get off on putting everybody down to make yourself feel good. Have it your way. But when you’re lying on your deathbed alone, look back and remember how you got there.”

Susan’s mouth flapped open and closed like a fish, which was such a departure for the always-composed Susan that it stopped Sara’s tirade. Rebecca clearly wasn’t waiting around to see if she was done yelling or not—her heels clicked as she stormed off down the sidewalk. People who had stopped to stare at the confrontation finally continued on their way.